


Gold Of Kingdoms

by apfelgranate



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Arranged Marriage, Class Issues, Cultural Differences, F/M, Multi, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-05-14 21:07:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5758855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apfelgranate/pseuds/apfelgranate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tauriel had never expected that the lot of younger royal children—to be married for political gain—would fall to her. After all, she was only the king's foster daughter, and her blood as common as treebark. Thorin on the other hand had always known he would marry for an alliance one day—but he had never imagined the other half of that bargain could be an elf.</p><p>In which the Greenwood and the Lonely Mountain forge an alliance for many kinds of gold…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story owes a lot to _Hild_ by Niccola Griffith (which, despite being compared to _Game of Thrones_ , actually gives a shit about women and their work in medieval societies) and [this quote](http://apfelgranate.tumblr.com/post/135682341570/it-is-said-that-during-the-fantasy-book-in-the) by Terry Pratchett (specifically the line about where the food comes from). Also to [hobbitdragon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitdragon/pseuds/hobbitdragon), who not only unfailingly fixes my grammar issues but also lets me ramble endlessly about the differing sexual mores of fictional societies.
> 
> Tags/rating will be adjusted as needed for new chapters.

The King Under the Mountain—Thrór, heir to the name of Durin, sovereign of Erebor, the greatest of all the lords of the dwarves—loved gold very deeply. In time, that love would fester and grow to devour all the love his heart and head held for other things, for things that did not gleam and glitter in the firelight, but for now, it was only deep. Deep as a mineshaft, yes. But not yet an abyss.

In his heart and head, he knew that gold and silver, steel and mithril, jewels of all colours from blinding white to night sky-blue to blood-red, could not sustain a kingdom. Not if they were only forged and then hoarded, to be polished and admired over and over, instead of traded for grain and meat and cloth and all the other things the mountain could not provide from within its cavernous halls or atop its far-reaching slopes. Wood, timber and charcoal and delicate woodworks, as well as fine-spun silk, and sweet, sweet mead came from the Greenwood. Cinnamon, cumin and cloves, countless precious spices and oils could be persuaded from the Iron Hills, who themselves had traded for them with iron and gold and mithril from the endless reach of Rhûn. Meat, fowl, fish, and all manner of greens came from Dale and the farmlands surrounding it. And, of course, wheat. And barley, and oats, and rye.

And therein lay the rub, didn’t it. Dale was the centre through which all trade in the North flowed, and at the same time, it was its larder. Oh, the Lonely Mountain could survive without Dale’s fish and greens, without the flax that replaced the oats every few years, even without the meat from its plump cattle and pigs. On the low slopes of Erebor, sturdy little black-brown sheep grazed year-round except for the very bad winters, yielding thick and durable wool, and above them climbed the grey-flecked white-bellied goats that gave a sharp milk from which passable butter and delicious cheese could be made. There were caverns where white, pallid mushrooms flowered and thrived, their meat soft and tangy and nourishing.

But grain. Grain was needed to make stew and gruel and pudding and all manner of pastries so loved by the wealthy. Grain was needed to make beer and malt. To make _bread_. Grain was the lifeblood that allowed the North to thrive, Dale the beating heart whence it flowed forth. And the Men of Dale knew it.

When it came to the price of grain, their word was law, as unbending and sturdy as stone. There was haggling year-in-year-out, of course there was, but in the end the kings of both Erebor and Greenwood gritted their teeth and paid, for they didn’t want their people to starve. And when the years were fruitful, and the gifts of mead and jewellery were plenty, the people of Dale were so generous one could not be faulted for thinking their fields had to stretch down to the borders of Mordor itself. And when the years were bad, with spring late to come and summer early to leave, with winter biting and whipping at the land while it smothered everything under a thick shroud of snow and ice, the people of Dale held their grain close to their chests as though it were gold. And still the kings paid, for they didn’t want their people to starve.

There was other land, land that did not belong to Dale—not part of the sea of rolling, fluttering autumn gold that spread like a corona around the city—but it was not as rich. It would not yield as Dale’s fields did. Besides, dwarves knew nothing of farming beneath an open sky. Caves lined with mushrooms and cunningly constructed little gardens for herbs within the mountain were the extent of their knowledge.

The elves of the Greenwood, though… Now, there were a people with growing green things for blood. Thrór knew the elven king Thranduil relied on Dale’s grain almost as much as he did. But Thrór also knew the elves rarely bought from Dale’s green offerings. So the elves must have farms or gardens of their own. Doubtless small ones, in that bramble thicket of a forest of theirs, but they knew the tricks and secrets of coaxing a seed to bloom and ripen even without full sun.

There was other land, yes. West of the Lonely Mountain, north of the Greenwood, where no lord had yet bothered to stake his claim. If one wanted waves of grain, one needed fields and seeds, sun and water. Knowledge, tools, and the hands to wield them. Dale was not the only power to possess these things.

The king of Erebor looked to the Greenwood and plotted.


	2. Chapter 2

“I have a foster daughter,” the elven king said, his peerlessly carven wood crown bursting with marigold and yellow and white blooms. He drank from the thick, creamy liqueur they were served, eyed the dwarven king over the rim of the green crystal glass, and added, “She is considered young but grown, among my people. And certainly older than any dwarf.” He lifted the glass against the light. “This is an excellent brandy, my friend.”

Thrór laughed and drank as well. The glass clinked as he set it down.

“You have your mead, we have our beer and brandy.” Gold winked on nearly all of his fingers, gold and jewels, as he steepled them beneath his chin. “My son has two sons. The younger will be a full-grown man come winter.” Thráin had a daughter, too, but she was very young, and Thranduil had no sons besides the Greenleaf boy. Thranduil would never barter his heir for this, regardless of the elves’ ridiculous lifespan. And, more importantly, Thrór would rather bend his knee and kiss the hand of the Lord of Dale’s squalling babe before all of Erebor than barter a dwarrowdam, no matter the nobility of her blood, for an alliance with anyone who wasn’t dwarf himself.

~*~

“You wish me to _marry_?”

Tauriel was livid. That it was a _dwarf_ of all things just added insult to injury, Thranduil understood that well. Still she railed, eyes glinting amber around the swollen black of her pupils, when they both knew she would acquiesce in the end. Her king had asked, and she would obey.

“It is an alliance and a treaty,” he said, and poured a second glass of wine. A deep red it was, heavy and sweet, from Gondor. Fine stuff from a kingless nation. “The wedding is little more than a formality.”

“A formality!” She nearly threw her hands in the air, thought better of it, then clenched her fists and seethed. “I am captain of the Kingsguard in all but name,” she bit out. “How can I take that mantle if I have to spend half my days in that rotten, dank _hole_ of a mountain, tethered to a suckling babe of a princeling? Like a hostage of squabbling kings of Men!”

“He is no suckling babe, I assure you. And neither will you spend half your days in that mountain. The final papers will be signed on the autumn equinox, but Thrór and I have agreed you shall only have to suffer each other’s presence for half of each year. A season here, a season apart, the third there, and the last apart again.” He offered her the glass of wine. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, or so they say.”

She only snarled. Thranduil wanted to sigh. She had always been too wild for a court that was half Sindarin. The forest was in her bones, that was the problem. Even in its most peaceful times, which were long past now, the Greenwood had been a teeming, unrestrained, sprawling thing. Snapping jaws and strangling vines and thick trunks that only bent when lightning struck, and often not even then.

He held the wine glass before her, tilted his head and waited until she looked at him. “Drink the wine,” he said. “Ride, hunt. Fight, if you must. Rut that freckled scribe of yours bow-legged, but know I have need of him on the morrow. Calm yourself, then call on Laineth. You will need a proper dress for the wedding.”

Tauriel stared at him. A muscle in her jaw jumped. She took the glass and downed the wine in one pull. She looked down at the glass as though she wanted to crush it.

“He—Thrór, he’s not expecting children, is he?”

“No one expects children from this.” He considered refilling her glass, but she was holding it so tightly he suspected it would snap soon. A great waste that would be. “No one _wants_ children from this, Tauriel.” He didn’t say that—although neither he nor Thrór had ever breached the subject, and they and their kingdoms were bonded in friendship and alliance—no king of elf or dwarf wanted a half-breed brat with even a whiff of claim to either throne.

Something in her face shifted, relaxed. Still, she set the glass down so hard on the delicate little table that held the bottle that both shook. She reached past Thranduil and wrapped long, strong fingers around the neck of the bottle, took it, let it dangle from her hand with deceptive carelessness. She stepped back.

“If it pleases you, my lord king,” she said and bowed theatrically, “I’ll take this and see about finding a freckled scribe to rut bow-legged, while I still can.”

Thranduil watched the tense line of her back and shoulders, the coiled-spring strength of a wolf that was in her muscles, as she left. He sighed, drank his wine in small sips, savoured it.

Forest-wild. It was a blessing and a curse.

~*~

Thorin pricked his ears. His parents were talking in hushed tones, the servants long since sent away, the fire burning low. It would fizzle and fade soon if it was not stoked and given fuel.

“It wasn’t right,” his mother was saying.

“That doesn’t matter,” his father said. “It is written in stone and ink. Frerin is the firstborn, and Thorin will do his duty as the second-born.” Frygg laughed, a sound that was mostly outrage.

“He was supposed to marry Daín’s niece, or a daughter of the Stonefoots or Ironfists. A dwarrow lass of good standing and noble blood, not some half-wild elf from a forest of wraiths and darkness!” She paced; Thorin could hear the angry swish-swish-rustle of her dress. “He was supposed to—he’s more than just the spare, Thráin, he’s _more_ than this.”

“He was,” Thráin said, so quietly Thorin could barely hear him. Some nameless, weightless feeling spread in his chest. His breath came faster. Thráin continued, his voice a raw thing. “Don’t speak of it anymore, love. We made the decision already.”

“I know! I know. But this— You could speak to the king, he listens to you more than anyone.”

“Father has his mind set. He will not be convinced otherwise.” A pause. Another rustle, a soft thump. Had they embraced? “Imagine what will be gained if it goes according to his plans. We could soon be harvesting our own wheat and barley. All for entertaining an elfin princess for a few months each year.”

A harsher thump. “You would not be speaking of this so easily if it were you betrothed! You think the king’s crown is the only heavy weight?”

“Frygg—”

Thorin withdrew silently, grateful he was not wearing mail or clanking jewellery. His mother was still angry, he could hear it in her voice. He would finish the ivory comb he had been fiddling with for the past weeks, filing and polishing and engraving, and gift it to her. Something to thank her for watching out for him, without admitting to his spying.

The feeling in his chest didn’t dissipate but grew as he made his way back to the apartment he shared with his siblings. The feeling expanded till it filled his whole body with a soaring hollowness, a lightness that made his heart beat fast and the blood roar between his ears.

It was _relief_ , Thorin realised. He would never be king.

There had always been whispers over him and Frerin. Over their ages, barely a year apart. Over the sickness that had supposedly taken hold of Frerin upon his birth and held the kingdom in fear and hope for more than thirteen months. He had at last been presented to the court, a babe with rosy fat cheeks and a head covered in blond curls. But by then there had been Thorin too, the second-born, the spare and maybe-heir, with his pallid skin and raven hair. Thrór had done his best to squash the whispers; an insecure, disputed line of succession could sound the death knell even for a stable kingdom.

But now Thorin would marry the elven king’s daughter. An elfin princess. Immortal, or as close as anyone could get. And all who whispered that the crown was not Frerin’s by right and blood—who frothed at the mouth at the thought of anyone but the firstborn son wearing it—they would have Thorin poisoned or exiled before they allowed him to take the throne while he was shackled to an elf.

He paused, his hand on the door to the royal children’s apartments. His heart trembled. Perhaps it was not all relief.

No matter. He would do what was demanded of him. At least he would remain close to Erebor this way, even if he had to spend his days within the shadowed halls of Mirkwood. If he were to marry a daughter of the houses of Stonefoot or Ironfist, he would have been spirited away to the Orocarni for years at a time, seldom to see his family or friends beyond his retainers.

He moved through the darkness of the sleeping apartments, only to find there was still light burning in the drawing room. Dís was still awake, he saw; she sat swaddled in blankets and furs on a couch, poring over a book, a clean white light burning from two candles on the side table beside her. Her favoured cat was curled up in her lap, sleeping. Carefully, he stepped closer.

“Behind on your reading again?”

She squawked and swatted at him in surprise, then scrambled to catch the book which threatened to slip from her hands. Her braids had come loose; it looked like she had been undoing them only to be distracted halfway through.

“Thorin!” she hissed over the noisy complaints of the cat at being woken. “Why are _you_ still about?”

“I asked first,” he said, unwilling to either admit to or lie about his previous whereabouts. Dís huffed, wiped her hair from her face and closed the book, her fingers between the pages. She scooted to the side to make space for him on the couch, which resulted in more displeased meowing.

“Oh, hush,” she directed at her cat, then turned to Thorin. “I’m _not_ behind on my reading,” she said vehemently. “This is—it’s—” Her face reddened. “I’m not sure what it is. I found it in the archives, Svana said the decorations look like it could be from Khand, or northeast Harad. It’s a history, but it’s not… It’s made-up, I think.”

Thorin, having slipped off his boots and curled up next to her, paused in his surreptitious attempt to tug at one of the furs to cover himself. Dís rolled her eyes and threw it at him; he caught it with a grateful chuckle. “What’s it about, then?”

“The prince of a kingdom goes missing. He went hunting, and got attacked by jackals. Now he’s lost, and no one back home even knows if he’s even still alive. Oh, and just now he met a ranger, which I think is some kind of wanderer, or vagrant? And the prince is considering just staying lost.”

“Why?”

“He doesn’t want to be king.”

“That’s… rather irresponsible.”

“Well, he’s the youngest, so it’s unlikely. I think he just wants to make sure.”

“There are plenty of other ways to ensure you’ll never be king,” Thorin murmured. Like getting married off to a half-wild elf from a forest of wraiths and darkness. He watched as the candlelight flickered and danced on the strands of gold woven into Dís’s hair. Did they have candles as bright as these in Mirkwood? Or was all subject to the turning of the sun and moon and what little of their light the thick ceiling of branches and leaves allowed to pass through? The mineshafts of Erebor could be close and dark, but they never remained so.

“Thorin?” Dís was watching him over the edge of her book. He shook his head with a hollow little laugh.

“It’s nothing.” He wriggled to lay his head against her shoulder and closed his eyes. “Do you mind if I stay until you go to bed?”

Dís sighed, but it was gentle. She pushed at his head. “Move a little, your hair’s tickling me. And don’t peek.”

“I shan’t,” he promised.

~*~

Tauriel found the queen roaming the edge of the northern forest. She had hiked her dress up and belted it so it hung only to her knees instead of trailing over the ground. Dust and dirt had dulled its once brilliant blue to a gentle earthy tone. Seams frayed, buttons torn away. A sturdy riding dress it was, but years of being dragged over hedge and briar had left considerable wear and tear.

Tauriel remembered how Laineth’s helpmeets had worked for weeks to make it. The double and triple rows of stitching on every edge of the white underdress of flowing linen. The blue overdress, dyed with precious indigo. The waistcoat of supple deerskin, brand-patterned until it seemed it was not leather but twisting vines and leaves and blooms. Her wedding dress would doubtlessly make these efforts pale in comparison, and she still hadn’t learned the seamsters’ names… Tauriel shook herself.

The queen turned around. Her eyes lit up.

“Ah, little treecat. What has you wandering so far at night?”

“I’ve been taller than you for nigh six centuries, Mother.”

Nengel laughed and offered Tauriel her hand from her perch in the sprawling branches of an ancient, knotted oak. Tauriel took it and pulled herself up, and they climbed the tree until they reached its crown, where one could gaze out to the star-studded skies. Their legs dangled, their hands rested beside each other on the branch, oak and ebony in the wan light of early night.

For a long time, they were silent.

“Gonodîr swears he’ll run up the walls any day now. Says he wasn’t made for main-handing, only right-handing.”

“He’s a very good steward,” said Nengel. “Looks closer, then again, counts twice and thrice.”

“Yes,” said Tauriel. Then, “He was better with you.”

Nengel leapt to her feet. The branch shook, Tauriel tightened her grip around the wood. Nengel balanced easily on her toes. “Three meadow-gardens will be overrun with ivy soon. Just east of the greater stone oak, you remember the path I took you when you were learning the bow? Your hair was in twisting braids, wound with bluestar.”

“I remember.”

“There is a new meadow growing as well. Lightning felled a twin tree a swift ride south from the crossing path and it took down brush and bramble with it. Mushrooms have already spawned, I daresay it will be exceedingly fruitful come spring. And—”

“Mother.” Tauriel grasped Nengel’s fluttering hand. She wanted to say, _Come back_. She wanted to take both her hands and drag her back to the court, so that they could sit once more by the fire in the queen’s hall as they had when Tauriel had been a small child. Where Nengel would comb and braid her hair, and Tauriel would point at a weapon a guard carried, or the dress of a passing noble, or a piece of jewellery, a book or a tool she had seen that day, and her mother would explain: _A bow of yew and sinew, to make war. A robe of shimmering velvet. They made fine velvet in Rivendell, and when the Lady of Lórien did not wear silk, she favoured velvet. A book, containing the life of a wanderer, like your parents were. Written on paper from east of the Orocarni_.

But the words would not leave Tauriel’s throat. Not in such order, not in such shapes.

“You will leave us, will you not?”

Nengel looked at her, unblinking. Tauriel suspected no one had dared to ask her that yet, not even Thranduil. They were all pretending she would stay, she would return to court, she would again wear the silver-and-starlight jewels she loved so dearly.

Nengel smiled, small, broken at the edges, turned her bright eyes towards the night. “You know the call of a lover.” Of course Tauriel did. Even her absent queen knew it. Rosy thighs, splayed wide. A wet, red mouth, questing fingers. _Come back to bed_.

“The sea is worse than any of them,” Negel murmured. “It tears at you, it sings and beckons, it coos and coaxes until you throw yourself with your dreams and want nothing but to be swept among its currents.” She exhaled, a shivery waver of a breath. “I see the dark things beneath its waves, their eyes like torches. I want to leap from the cliffs and cut the waves and dive deep where only ancient things dwell, I want to break the water and eat nothing but salt and air. I can hear the gulls crying on the wind. They call my name. Oh—” she shuddered and clutched Tauriel’s hand, “—No one told me it would be like this.”

Tauriel squeezed her hand in turn, and didn’t know what to say. “I don’t think it is,” she offered eventually. “When they tell the stories, it is always _west_. The sea lies west, but east and north and south, too. The yearning comes from beyond the sea.”

Nengel shook her head. “No. No. I see it in my dreams: I am beneath the waves, among the dark, ancient things. The tide rises and falls with my breath.”

The sea was in her blood. It must be.

It was in her eyes, too. Teal around the pupil, shifting to deep blue at the rim, shimmering like a clear pool in the sun. The queen would leave her kingdom, Tauriel understood then. And her mother… she would leave as well. As long as Nengel dwelt in the Greenwood, she was its queen—whether she wanted it or not.

“When?”

Nengel made a terrible noise inside her throat. “I… I don’t know. I cannot, not yet, there is so much—I saw webs as tall as trees three moons ago, by the old fortress, and could not find their makers. They were beautifully spun, but we could lose an entire brood of silk moths if they moved farther north, I know their numbers are waning—”

“You must tell me, when you leave,” Tauriel whispered. She climbed to her feet; the branch swung gently under their combined weight. Her mother’s fingers went white in her grip. “You must tell me. Promise me, you will not go to the sea without bidding me goodbye.”

“ _Of course_. I would—” Nengel’s ocean-blue gaze trailed from Tauriel’s face down to her hand, then returned. “What happened, little treecat?”

“Thranduil is selling me off to Erebor. I’m to marry the prince’s second son.”

Nengel stared at her, lips parted. Tauriel’s insides twisted, she felt sick to her stomach, like some bitter beast had woken below her ribs and now clawed for its freedom. It was as though telling the queen had made it all real. The condescension and disdain that were sure to come. The months locked inside that mountain, each and every year until the princeling died. The position of guard captain slipping from her grasp when she had almost laid hand on it.

“But you are not of royal blood.” Tauriel wanted to laugh, and to cry. From anyone else, that sentence would have left their lips with poison clinging to the words—Nengel’s voice was only coloured with confusion and concern.

“I’m the king’s child regardless. Never the heir, but good enough for peaceweaver.”

“We are not at war.” Nengel hesitated. “Not with folk who could be assuaged through a marriage.”

“It’s not about war, it’s about grain. They—Thranduil and the dwarven king—they want to work the land north and east of here. They think to farm it. They fear Dale’s hold over them.”

The queen gazed out over the tree crowns, to the lands lying fallow and wild north of the Greenwood. She took both of Tauriel’s hands and drew her deeper into the tree’s twigs and still-green leaves until her back settled against its trunk. She embraced Tauriel, drew her in with her arms slender and strong as willows, and held her fast. She smelt of forest, earth and leaves, bark and tree’s blood. Tauriel buried her head in the crook of her mother’s neck, its scent and warmth.

“Rare is the kingdom that finds all it needs and desires within its own borders,” Nengel murmured. “If the arrangement were to be broken now, if I were to go to the king on your behalf…”

“I—I don’t know if you could sway him.”

“Say I could—what would follow, for the fields and the inclination of the dwarves?”

“They… No contract is signed, yet. The marriage is a pledge, to ensure each will hold to their end of the bargain. I don’t know if the dwarves would agree to it without the marriage, but… they would not look kindly on Thranduil rescinding his offer of marriage.”

Nengel hummed thoughtfully and kissed the edge of Tauriel’s jaw. “Do you wish me to go to the king?”

Tauriel shivered and said nothing. Her eyes stung.

Nengel cupped her face between her hands, her skin warm, grown calloused in the years away from court, and touched her forehead against Tauriel’s. Her eyes were like bottomless pools, slivers of starlight reflected at the edges.

“Oh, my darling daughter. Fear not: the forest is in your bones, it will never forsake you. You will grow taller still. Your head will touch the sky, and you will be crowned with stars.”

“Is that what you see,” whispered Tauriel, “or what you wish for me?”

Nengel smiled. “Can it not be both?”

~*~

Frygg looked from the ivory comb in her hands to Thorin’s face. A wry smile tugged at her lips.

“This is fine work, Thorin. Although it does make me suspect you’ve done something that would require currying favour with gifts.”

“Of course not,” Thorin said, and managed to keep his expression earnest. Frygg laughed lightly and shook her head. “Come, sit with us,” she said, “Let us see if it works as beautifully as it looks.”

Out on the balcony of Frygg’s apartments, a crevasse cut into the mountainside so deeply it almost reached the royal complex. She loved this space well, as evidenced by the various pieces of comfortable, sturdy furniture that had taken up permanent residence below the marbled overhang that shielded the balcony from rain and storm. On either side of the crevasse the sharp, nigh-vertical walls of mountainous rock loomed, but if one cast the gaze forward, on clear days the dark shapes of the Iron Hills could be seen in the distance.

On the couch opposite to Frygg sat Heidrun, Thorin’s grandmother. Her lady-in-waiting Svanhild sat beside her, their bodies angled towards one another, and Svanhild was busy working a strand of pearls and most of the queen’s hair into a thick braid. Between the couches stood a low table, laden with stacks of paper, the odd book, and a set of quills with ink. Below the table, two cats lazed, their fluffy grey-black limbs sprawled in every direction.

Thorin espied several reports on the year’s grain trade with Dale as he took a seat beside his mother. She moved to unclasp his braids and he pulled away with a surprised huff of laughter. “The comb was meant for you,” he said.

“Well, I’m not undoing Svana’s hard work so soon after she completed it,” Frygg said, lifting her eyebrows, “and you’ve not been keeping your hair properly for days, my dear.” Thorin’s cheeks grew hot with embarrassment, but he could not deny it. His fingers fumbled often these days, his thoughts driven to distraction unless he could focus them along the sharp edge of a tool.

With a soft exhale, he began to remove the carved beads and hairclasps from his braids and beard, and Frygg parted his hair to comb it. The comb hissed gently as she carded it through his hair, smoothing out tangles. The repetitive tug and drag was soothing, and Thorin let himself relax into it. He began to redo his braids once she moved onto the back of his head, fingers moving surely for once. Like this, listening with half an ear to the murmured conversation between queen and princess about the grain trade, with Frygg’s comb gliding through his hair, it was easier to think of nothing but the long-familiar motions of his fingers working his hair into a braid.

Eventually their conversation lulled, Frygg declared him properly groomed, and fastened the comb to her belt.

“Still nervous about the announcement, little prince?” Svanhild asked, and Thorin huffed irritably at the reminder.

“Wouldn’t you be, if you had to marry some forest sprite?”

“Well, if I was noble enough to have to worry about such things, yes.” Heidrun flicked Svanhild’s elbow with her finger, and Svanhild’s gaze wavered as though she had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. Thorin resolutely chose not to take it to heart; his grandmother’s lady-in-waiting had always had a sharper edge to her tongue.

“I am planning ahead,” she was saying now, “we can’t have him keel over from nerves when your husband proclaims the joyous news. Imagine! ‘A marriage to seal a most fruitful alliance!’ and our prince here looking like he’s sick from the mere thought.”

“You have some teas against that, don’t you,” interjected Frygg.

“Certainly,” Svanhild said promptly.

“I’ve _never_ been sick from nerves,” Thorin grunted. All three women looked at him, until at last he sighed and relented: “I’d be grateful for your teas, Svanhild, on the day of the announcement.”

Now Frygg leant forward and tapped a paper that laid out this year’s shipment and payment for oats.

“Speaking of announcement,” she said, “please tell me you’ve convinced Thrór to send a messenger to Dale. With how many traders are going back and forth at the moment, they’ll know of our plans within two days, at most.”

Despite his earlier words, now an uneasy feeling grew in Thorin’s gut. He twisted his newly-made braid between his fingers, looking out over the western plain. “The Men of Dale… They won’t be too pleased to lose trade with us, will they? And even less if their lord hears it from a bullock wagon driver’s mouth.”

From the corner of his eyes, he saw Frygg and Heidrun exchange looks. The soft hiss of fingers gliding through Heidrun’s hair had stopped, and Svanhild muttered something under her breath that made the queen chuckle.

“It’s a delicate matter,” she said. “But Dale will thrive regardless, considering how many threads of trade form its knot. How the guild masters and nobility will take the news might be the greater danger. They know the king wishes to formalise an alliance with Mirkwood, and rumours of the details have flit from mouth to ear, growing ever more disruptive.”

A cold shudder skated down Thorin’s spine and he hastily stood up to hide it. “I have not yet—my final smithing piece, my masterwork—the master can’t deny me to finish the apprenticeship. Can she?”

“You’re the king’s grandchild,” said Svanhild. He stared wordlessly at her. “She could,” she added, “but she will not.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Heidrun said, while Frygg patted the couch beside her. “Sit down, son,” she said, “Your fellow young nobles will wag their tongues, but that will be the worst you have to face.”

Thorin sat again, and could not quite keep a sigh from escaping him. “Weren’t _you_ the one who taught me that there is power in gossip and rumour?”

“Of course. Which is why you will keep your head high and not dignify the barbs of some—”

“ _Stripling kids_ ,” Svanhild muttered under her breath.

“—nobles’ children with a defense. Because there is nothing to require defending, do you understand?”

“Of course, Mother, but—” he rubbed his fingers across his mouth, his skin still prickling. “Grandmother, you said the guildmasters…” He didn’t quite know how to continue. He was just the second son of the crown prince, and to suggest to the queen how to handle fractious guild leaders made him feel rather foolish and presumptive.

“Ah, of course.” Heidrun turned to Svanhild and covered her hands with her own to still them. “I shall finish the braid alone. I have an errand for you, and we might as well set it in motion now.” She entangled their fingers. “You must carry an invitation to the gold- and silvermiths’ guildmasters. I wish to discuss the discovery of the latest gold and silver veins, two days hence. Wear the necklace I gave you for midsummer solstice; let yourself be seen.”

Svanhild nodded and bowed her head to kiss Heidrun’s knuckles, then rose and departed.

Thorin watched Svanhild leave, his throat dry. Not a simple runner to relay the queen’s words, not an official messenger, but her own lady-in-waiting. The necklace Heidrun had crafted herself: it was heavy, a chased disk of pale gold, edged with spring-green enamel and jade—the royal seal, in Heidrun’s colors. An invitation like that… it was a gift of its own.

Frygg and Heidrun were watching him, he saw as he turned his gaze from where Svanhild had disappeared. It was the same careful gaze they turned upon Dís during her lessons.

“What about the other guilds?” he asked.

Frygg hummed thoughtfully. “What about them, Thorin?”

He looked at his hands resting in his lap while his thoughts whirled: There wasn’t a single member of Durin’s royal line who had not learned the way of the smithy—or would, in Dís’s case—but Heidrun’s craftmanship with gold and gemstones was fabled. Several of Thráin’s childhood friends had risen to high ranks in the stonemasons’ and miners’ guilds. Thrór’s bodyguard Nár was the younger brother of the head of the warriors’ guild; who in turn oversaw Frerin’s training since he had come of age last winter. And Frygg’s family had always had close ties to the Aurvang family—who, unlike most noble families, did not head up a guild themselves but brokered much of the trade through Dale. And Thorin himself…

He was neither old nor important enough to have forged connections such as these yet. But the master of the blacksmith’s guild did favour him, and as far as he could tell, it was not simply for his royal blood.

“You… you could sway the Aurvangs,” he said to Frygg. “If they fear losing trade with Dale once we have another source of grain. Less gold for grain means more gold for other wares, right? And Father meets with his old friends often, and they drink and talk and he’s the _crown prince_ , they’ll listen to him. And the warriors’ guildmaster would never speak out against the king when his own brother has sworn his life to protect the crown—I mean, I don’t believe…”

He grew quiet, suddenly unsure. Queen and princess glanced at each other and smiled. Heidrun said, “We’ll make a peaceweaver of you yet.”

 _Peaceweaver_.

Thorin flushed warm with unexpected pride. The word had a considerably more pleasant ring to it than _spare_ , he thought.


	3. Chapter 3

Autumn came and swept over the lands on a wave of red and gold, driven along by brisk winds. Early evening tinted the sunlight a honey colour as it slanted through treetops and windows.

It made Tinugwen’s hair gleam like burnished copper where it spilled over his shoulders and chest. His skin was flushed pink with bloodflow beneath his countless freckles, and turned pale under the press of Tauriel’s fingers. “Faster,” she murmured as she raked her nails down his thighs; he gasped and caught her hands to place them upon his hips once more.

“I might—ah—require some assistance with that.” She held fast, ground against him; the movement of his hips on hers had leather and wood rub between her thighs, between the folds of her cunt. Her breath became a trembling thing within her lungs, heat and pleasure climbing to a bright peak. She panted, her hands fell to her sides, and a sip of laughter escaped her as Tinugwen squirmed in her lap with need, his brows furrowed.

“You are _fiendish_ ,” he breathed as he bent to kiss her heaving chest. His hair fell as a curtain upon her throat and she caught the near-hidden flash of his teeth as he smiled up at her, then he mouthed his next words against her skin. “You always sound as the forest in storm, Tauriel. Come, let me have another gale.”

Now she laughed in earnest and dragged him up to her mouth to kiss him. They rolled until she came up on her knees, Tinugwen’s shoulders pressed to the bed, and she grasped his slender thighs and splayed them wide, and gave him her prick in long, smooth strokes until he keened soundlessly, his forever ink-stained fingers fluttering over his cock. She kept on moving as he shivered, slower, but she was hungry to spend her strength like this. Tinugwen’s breath gusted from his mouth in bursts.

“You seem to be intent on storing many warm memories for when you disappear into that cave of a kingdom,” he eventually said with a smirk. Tauriel chuckled and kept up the slow, grinding movement of her hips.

“Perhaps.”

His smirk faded to a smile, a slim moon-sickle in a rosy sky of red-brown stars. “It must be very dark and cold in that place.” When she didn’t reply, he drew her close and curled himself around her, warm thighs and arms. “I have heat to share, still.”

By the end of it the skin of Tinugwen’s back stuck to her front with sweat, their hearts drumming the same frantic beat against their ribs. Tauriel was breathing noisily, enjoying the gentle rise and fall of Tinugwen’s ribcage underneath her chest. She kissed the nape of his neck and he sighed blissfully, shuddered as she drew her fingers along the line of his arm.

“Thank you.”

Tauriel snorted and muttered, “You say that as though I didn’t have my pleasure.” _Over and over_. He rose to twist beneath her; she lifted herself to allow it, and they settled once more into the bedding, this time with their chests plastered together.

“Habit,” he murmured. “Forgive me.” His fingers curled below her ear and moved along her neck in a light caress, then danced over her shoulder and to her back, following the curve of her shoulder blade. She braced herself on her elbows again.

“I have a favour to ask,” she said.

“Right after you pricked me senseless? You have impeccable timing.”

“It’s nothing untoward. I’m going to visit Dale to watch the harvest, and I want someone along to document it. When was the last time you had open skies above you?”

He considered her for a long moment.

“Does the king know about this?” he asked.

“He will, once I return.”

“Tauriel, I—” He sighed. “I cannot just disappear for days at a time.”

She smiled, wide and gleaming, for she knew she had caught him. “You can, on my orders. Say you’ll accompany me, and I’ll have us on horseback within the day. I might be the king’s daughter in name only, but for that I am royal enough.”

She watched him as he considered the offer and its arguments. Truly, if Tauriel Thranduilien wanted the Silvan scribe with the star-scatter freckles and the swift hand to herself for a few days, who would find proper cause to deny her?

“We can visit Dale’s market, too,” she added.

“Very well,” said Tinugwen, then pushed at her shoulder. “But not yet on the morrow. You’ve left me quite too sore for riding so soon.”

~*~

“You will need better horses than that if you intend to abscond your engagement.”

Tauriel looked from her hands upon the saddle straps to the source of the voice. Maethron stood there, by the entrance of the equine stables, bathed in the grey light of morning. It glittered on the filigree on his mail and vambraces, on the sigil ring on his finger.

“I have no intentions of absconding,” she said.

“Does the captain know of your plans?”

Tauriel straightened and fixed him with a glacial stare. “Ask her yourself.” The line of his mouth twisted, the curve of his cheeks darkened.

“Why are you here?” she asked. “You’re neither dressed for patrol nor for training.” Even for a Sindarin lord’s son, his current armor was too fine to sully it with proper usage. She fastened the second saddle strap with a jerk, slung her swordbelt over her hips, and noted with bitter satisfaction how his gaze jumped from her face to the muscle in her arm to the line of her sword angled across her pelvis.

Here for her, then. Two centuries ago that thought would have made her blood flow faster, but now it only had a knot of resentment weigh in her gut. Maethron stepped into the stables, and closed the distance between them while she tightened the saddle straps one final time. His gaze lingered on her fingers; longer, she suspected, than he intended.

“I seek no quarrel,” he said, gentler. “I was… concerned. The king’s will cannot be easy to bear for you.”

“It is the king’s will,” Tauriel said with a shrug, far more casual than she felt. The simmering rage over it still came to a boil inside her on occasion, her throat tight around something jagged, but she was learning to guide it along more useful paths than helpless frustration.

She took the first pair of saddlebags with supplies and fastened them to saddle and horse, letting Maethron stew in his precious mail. The horse, a tall chestnut, whickered and pranced slightly under the added weight, and she stroked its flank to calm it. From the corners of her eyes she saw Maethron draw breath to speak.

“Tauriel—”

“My lady Thranduilien.”

Both Tauriel and Maethron looked to the entrance of the stables; Tauriel smiled when she saw Tinugwen’s autumn gold-crowned head.

“Come, Tinugwen,” she called, “take the horse, I shall join you in a moment.”

Tinugwen came into the shade of the stables, a satchel with his scribe’s tools slung crosswise over his chest. “My lord Fimbelion,” he said to Maethron, bowed, and smoothly stepped past him to take hold of the horse’s reins.

Maethron watched him with a pinched expression as Tinugwen led the horse outside, then turned once more towards Tauriel.

“You’re taking that… that _scribe_?”

The undertone of jealousy in his voice nearly made her bark out a laugh, and she quickly turned towards her own horse. The blue roan was her favoured mount, far calmer and more patient than most horses she had ridden over the years. She scritched its muzzle, noting with satisfaction that this time it hadn’t been bridled too tightly. She checked the saddle, tightened the straps like she had done for the chestnut, then moved to fasten the second pair of saddlebags.

“Yes,” she said as she worked, “I am taking that scribe.”

Maethron made a vaguely disapproving noise, and she glanced over her shoulder just in time to see how he crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“He’s beneath you,” he muttered. Tauriel grew still; her skin felt too tight and too hot, anger bubbled just beneath it.

“Usually,” she said cheerfully, “Although it _is_ quite enjoyable with him on top, too.”

Now Maethron’s cheeks took on a violently pink tinge underneath his tawny skin. “That is not what I—”

“Isn’t it?” Tauriel smiled, but it was neither gentle nor kind. “Do you think I haven’t seen you watching me? I know your kind, Maethron, and I have no patience for it.” _No more_ , she thought.

He bristled. “ _My_ kind?”

“Sindarin,” she said, and let go of the saddle. “Court-bred.” She stepped close to him, so he had to crane his neck to look up into her face. “Arrogant with your youth and blood.” Maethron took an involuntary step backwards. She followed. “The kind that calls my name sweet as spring rain only to shun me once you’ve had your _fill_.” He swallowed, gaze darting like a cornered deer, and, oh: in that moment the sight of it was sweeter than any kiss could have been.

“Your kind isn’t worth the pleasure you could give me,” she said, and she smiled even wider, a baring of teeth. “Find someone else to prick you, Fimbelion.”

And with that, she stepped back again, swung herself into the saddle, and rode outside.

~*~

Dale’s fields seemed to stretch to the horizon, a shimmering gold-red-green sea reaching to the line where earth met sky. Tauriel and Tinugwen rode side by side on the well-used road that led along the river from the heart of the Greenwood to the Long Lake to the city of Dale, their knees almost brushing. The river’s rushing was a soothing murmur a little ways away, and the autumn sun, though weak, shone warmly on their skin.

They rode past already harvested fields, the odd barren stretch of earth, until luck favoured them and they came upon a field where the farmfolk were busy at work. For a time they watched from horseback as the men and women used scythes and sickles to cut the wheat, then gathered them into sheaves and placed them in skyward piles upon the shorn field to dry.

“I think we may be unnerving them,” Tinugwen eventually said, after yet another person had given them a long, slightly worried look.

“I didn’t wish to disturb their work,” Tauriel said tartly. She could _hear_ him smiling, and she knew it would be entirely too amused if she dignified it by looking at him. Instead, she dismounted and led her horse towards a small clustering of people. A girl, who had been carrying a water jug among the workers, broke away from the group and approached them.

“Milady, milord,” she said and did a hurried curtsy, then clutched the water jug to her chest to tuck loose strands of her wild dark hair behind her ears with her free hand. She curtsied a second time, and her hair came loose again. “Forgive me, we cannot offer you anything but—”

“We’re not of the king’s court,” Tauriel said, allaying. Behind her, Tinugwen smothered a chuckle into a cough; she withstood the urge to roll her eyes and instead gave the girl an encouraging smile. “Keep the water for those who need it.”

“Oh. Um.” The girl gripped her water jug with both hands, confusion as plain on her face as curiosity. “Are you—are you the king’s soldiers, then?”

“Anri!” One of the workers had joined them, and clamped wrinkled, sun-browned hands down on the girl’s shoulders. It was a man, his face as brown and lined as his hands, and his resemblance to the girl was startling, obvious in the line of their jaws and set of their brows and the bow of their noses. “Come, surely these fine… elves, have very important matters to attend to with the Master of the city, you shouldn’t keep them.”

“Actually,” Tauriel said, “we’re not here to visit Lord Girion. We’ve come for knowledge.”

The man frowned, tugging Anri closer against his chest. “Lord Girion holds the library.”

“Does he keep books on your work as well?”

“The harvest ledgers are kept by Lord Girion’s stewards.”

“I’m not interested in those. I meant _this_ work, here. The work you do to bring a barren field to bear grain and harvest it.”

The man stared at them. Behind him, Tauriel saw, several of the other workers had drawn closer and were watching their conversation with cautious interest.

“You mean farming?” Anri piped up. “Like oats and barley?”

“All kinds of grain,” Tauriel said.

“We’re very curious,” Tinugwen supplied, with utmost sincerity. Tauriel generously chose not to elbow him for it, but added, “If you could spare us a few moments of your time, we would be very grateful.”

Anri’s face tilted even further skyward, catching her father’s eyes. “I could, um,” she mumbled, “explain. Can I, Da?”

He looked between Tauriel and Tinugwen, his expression torn. Eventually he sighed and took the water jug from her hands, hoisting it under one arm. “We’ll need you to bring the sheaves in later, so don’t run off.” Anri clapped her hands together, grinning widely.

~*~

They seated themselves at the edge of the field, with Anri sitting between the elves. The girl wrung her fingers into her skirts, glancing surrepitiously from one to the other, while Tinugwen arranged his tablet and sheets of paper and quills.

“I thought that—” she began, hesitated, and closed her mouth.

“Yes?” Tauriel gave her an expectant look.

Anri grew ruddy in the cheeks. “Ithoughtelveskneweverything,” she said in one quick rush. Tauriel laughed.

“No one knows everything,” she said. “Nor is anyone able to know everything. But you can help us get a little closer to it, hm?”

Anri giggled, ears going as ruddy as her cheeks, picked at a tuft of grass, and began to explain. In the distance, the workers talked and groaned and sickes hissed, Tinugwen’s quill scritch-scritch-scritched across the paper, overhead birds soared and sang, in search for stray grain to steal away, as the words spilled from Anri like water rushing over stones in a burbling brook. Tauriel sat leaning back, bracing herself on her hands, and listened.

~*~

Once they were alone again, Tinguwen stowed his notes and quills away, then turned to her and gave her a lopsided smile, his brows raised high.

“‘Not of the king’s court’?” he echoed. “There are only three people who are more _of the court_ than you, and one of them is the king himself.”

The muscles between Tauriel’s shoulder blades knotted with tension and she shook her head, irritated. “You’re the only one who truly believes that,” she muttered.

“Believing is something altogether different,” he said. “I speak of what is written, and thus becomes the truth: you are not called Thranduilien for nothing.”

“That’s just—” She snapped her mouth shut, a fathomless anger brewing in the pit of her stomach. “That is only a name.”

“And the power it carries is the reason why I am here, with you, and not in the forest, transcribing every word of our dear king.”

Tauriel scoffed, even though she knew he was right. In names, they both knew, lay power. But at the end of the day…

“It’s all about _blood_ , in the end,” she said, with more bitterness than she could hold back. “Thranduil used that name to string me into this damned marriage, but the throne would _never_ pass to me if he and Legolas sailed west. Because I am—”

Silvan. Born somewhere on a dusty road at the forest’s edge, to wanderers from beyond the Rhûnic Sea. Her blood was as common as treebark; it didn’t trace back to the first Eldar, it _couldn’t_ be traced back to the first Eldar. And that made it little better than the blood of Men in the eyes of many among the king’s court.

She shuddered. Her throat was tight, and it hurt to swallow.

“If Thranduil and his son died,” Tinugwen said carefully, quietly, “if the queen died—the crown passes to the one who is next in line to receive it.” He leaned in closer, laying his hand on her waist. “It is not only names and blood,” he whispered. “There is ink, too. And it is _your name_ which is written after the prince’s in the line of inheritance.”

She looked down into his face. “I didn’t—” She bit her lip, hesitant; that sharp-edged, helpless anger twisting her insides. “I didn’t say that because I _want_ the throne, I meant—”

“I know,” he said gently. “And I know your meaning. But it is as I said: what is written, becomes truth. You may not wish for the crown, but you have right to it. And the power bestowed by that right is yours to use, regardless of whether or not you ever lay claim to the throne.”

He kissed the tips of his fingers and laid them against the line of her jaw. “Remember that, the next time some lordling insinuates your blood isn’t worthy of your name.”

Before she could reply, he took her hand and laid another kiss across her knuckles.

“Now come, you promised me a market for all that riding.”

Despite herself, a soft, startled laugh burst from her mouth, and she allowed him to tug her back to their horses.

~*~

The market was bustling with color and noise and smells. Tauriel drew a deep breath: the scent of fresh harvest lingered even here, earth and cut grain beneath the spices, the smoke of the forges, the animal smell. It was busy but soothing all the same, like watching a swarm of small, silver fish that flit about in the Greenwood’s streams in summer. She could feel her miserable mood inching away by the minute.

She wandered among the stalls, gaze trailing over the offerings. Glittering pieces of jewelry competed with the intense colors of dyes arranged in jars of glass, dried and smoked meats hung beside horns of goats and rams, blades both with gleaming edge and sheathed in intricately decorated scarbbards gave way to bolts upon bolts of rich fabric. She recognized the deep red brocade and velvet for which Rivendell was famed. There was shimmering silk that came from the Greenwood itself, thick wool shot through with gold and silver thread, from Erebor and the Iron Hills. Fine linen, white from Dale and dyed spring green from the northern border of the sea of Rhûn. And then, countless shades of blue, from daytime sky to inky night. The kind of blue her mother favoured…

She looked to the stallkeeper, and almost froze. She didn’t have to look down to meet their eyes. But the ears—round. Human.

The stallkeeper laughed, exposing white teeth and a red tongue. “Not used to seeing folks of your height, are you, elfling?”

Tauriel found herself smiling in return. “No,” she admitted. “Not in centuries.”

Another laugh, shorter and brighter this time. The stallkeeper leaned forward and placed dark-skinned hands on her fabrics. “What are you looking for, elfling? Fabric for a new dress, a coat, a cloak? Perhaps a gift for your sweet friend there?”

Tauriel followed her gaze, and arrived at the slope of Tinugwen’s shoulders, the light of the dipping sun gleaming on his curls and freckled skin.

“No,” she said. “He likes red.”

“A pity. Blue would suit him well.”

 _It does_ , Tauriel thought, a vivid memory of Tinugwen tangled in her sheets washing through her. She coughed, mentally shook herself and turned her mind to the blue right before her, then lifted a piece of cloth against the light. The weaving was fine and tight, and even Tauriel, who was not particularly well-versed when it came to weaving, could tell the work had been done by a skilled hand. Although Laineth or her helpmeets could likely have deduced a great deal more from looking at it. She stroked her hand across another roll of cloth, finding the same tight weave.

“These are beautiful,” she said. “I have rarely seen blue like this. Where were they made?”

“Kiskebeth. It’s… in Harad, south of the mountains.”

The hesitation in the reply made Tauriel look up from her examination. “Is it so unusual for trade to come from Harad? ”

The stallkeeper’s mouth twisted. “These days, it is. Gondor’s war made Harondor near inhospitable, even if the old trade route remains passable. But caravans have to bribe their way onto a northbound ship on the Anduin, and the price is steep. It’s easier with Khand and Umbar, they _want_ our trade.” She sighed and waved one hand, dismissive. “This is no talk for market. You haven’t told me what you’re looking for yet.”

Tauriel rubbed the fabric between her fingers, thoughtful. If her mother were still at court, she would have brought her the kind of blue that slid into turquoise, the colour of the ocean under the sun, to be fashioned into a cloak. She still might get a cloak of some kind for Nengel, but it would have to be made of sturdier stuff than this.

Below the bolt she had lifted away were two others. They were dark blue shimmering with just a hint of purple; not the sea’s colours, but of the night. One of them was worked with silver thread in delicate stitchings, it almost looked like—

“Found what you’re looking for, eh?”

Tauriel was already reaching for her purse.

~*~

Agarwendîs, one of Laineth’s helpmeets, blinked at the bolts of cloth Tauriel presented to her.

“For my wedding dress,” Tauriel explained. “If I must marry that dwarf, I want the dress to be made from this.”

The seamstress frowned.

“These… are not our colours, lady Tauriel,” she said with caution.

She was right: blue was not the Greenwood’s color, nor its king’s. A hint of summersky occasionally stole its way into Thranduil’s crown when spring shifted to summer, but otherwise it was a parade of browns and reds and yellows, warm and dark, and always mingled with green.

“I know,” said Tauriel. “They’re mine.”

Between them, the silver thread woven into the fabric winked like stars in a clear night sky.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always welcome!


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